


At Sixes and Sevens

by alea_archivist (the_aleator)



Series: A Mere Appendix [6]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Lestrade Is Awesome, Whump, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:15:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22853110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_aleator/pseuds/alea_archivist
Summary: Abduction meant a bad enough day for Watson. That doesn't mean it can't get worse.
Series: A Mere Appendix [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636375
Kudos: 13
Collections: Watson's Woes JWP Entries: 2013





	1. At Sixes and Sevens

“I’m afraid that I owe you my apologies, Lestrade.” Watson says rather apologetically as he feels at the knot on the back of his head gingerly. The little inspector sitting next to him is similarly beleaguered, pressing at the wound on his temple with the sorry remnants of a handkerchief.

“Whatever for?” Lestrade queries, as he takes the cloth away gently, and feels with relief the dryness of the graze.

“Had I known that the ruse of a carriage accident and a dying patient was the guise for my – our,” Watson corrects himself with a grimace as he continues “abduction, I should have gone straight to the nearest Constable.” Lestrade shuts his dark eyes with long-suffering patience as he sits on the grimy floor with his neatly pressed trousers, leaning against the soot-splattered wall with distaste.

“All in the line of duty, Doctor.” He says faux cheerily, “but I shall account you a drink owed for this particular escapade. Two, in fact, if Mr. Holmes should become involved.”

“I’d thought you didn’t drink.”

“True, but for the odd cider now and again. But I may start, particularly if Gregson is set upon our case.” Lestrade shivers with discomfort down to his bedrock at the very thought, and nudges the man beside him gently.

“What do you know of this John Reaver? I must confess that I’ve never heard the name, and I make a practice of keeping abreast of Mr. Holmes’ business, if I can.”

“Oh, he was a small time thief, mostly concerned with jewelry and the like. Holmes only became aware of him because of the Lindisfarne case, when he was sent down for six months, I believe.” Lestrade exhales heavily, as he eyes the large lump on the Doctor’s head.

“Well, he seems to bear rather a grudge.”

“I don’t deny it.” Watson admits, and is sorry indeed to have involved Lestrade in this. The Inspector will bluff and say that it is all part of his duty, but Watson knows which one of them has a wife and a family to return to and sadly, it is not him. Funny how his heart is split, for he cannot deny the comfort of not being alone, yet he is certain that without him, Lestrade should be better off.

The sound of low breathing tells Watson that the other man is asleep, and he hunches into his jacket, and wills away the discomfort. He dozes lightly, and passes some hours as the dank basement grows colder with the setting of what little sun there is in London.

He is shivering when the trap door is flung open, and the sound of boots comes down the ramshackle steps. He sits up straighter, with the first strains of hope in his soul, for surely Holmes…

But no. It is Reaver and by the shadow of the lantern that swings in his hand, Watson can read the barely disguised menace in the brutish face. Lestrade stirs beside him, and calls out, almost slurred

“Mind the light!” And covers his eyes with his hand, teeth set against the pricking of the light. With a low grunt, Reever’s boot reaches out and catches the Inspector in the side, and Watson is on his feet, or near as he can with the shackle that runs from his ankle to Lestrade’s, set low in the leaded cement. His stance does not seem to frighten Reaver, who laughs darkly as he swings the light before the Inspector’s face.

“A poor day to be a friend of John Watson, sir.” He calls meanly, as he shows his teeth in a grimace. “But it was a poor day to be John Reaver when Dr. John Watson caught him plying his trade. Isn’t that so, Doctor?” He shouts, backhanding Watson with one clenched fist. Watson ignores the blood trickling down from his lip and the setting bruise, and protests

“Your trade was against the Queen’s law, Reaver.”

“My trade was the only thing keeping my children fed! Now they are in the workhouse and their mam too, I should think. All because of you, John Watson.” He roars, and there is a darkness in his blue eyes which reads much like madness to Watson.

“Come now, Reaver. You cannot blame the Doctor for your folly.” Lestrade is on his feet now, though he sways almost rhythmically as Watson notices the rivulets of dark blood dripping down his jaw and onto his jacket.

“Mebbe not.” Reaver says, almost calmly, and he settles one fist by his side, the other clenched before him with the light. “But my kids.” He pants, and there is a flash of silver in the light, and Lestrade is breathing hard beside him as he clutches at his arm, white clenched knuckles in a steely hand, gripping tightly.

Watson ignores Reaver to look at Lestrade's arm, for the wound is deep, but has missed anything particularly vital, and clamps his hands over it in a pale imitation of a compress. It will have to do, and Watson’s mind races as he considers action. The shackle is short, but perhaps long enough…?

Even as he places Lestrade’s hand under his own bloody ones, he meets the Inspector’s sable eyes in the pale light, and sees the white face give a single nod. Clenching his muscles, Watson throws himself sideways as Reaver whispers to himself, clearly gone mad,

“And my poor wife…” He tackles the other man, until the shackle comes to a cruel halt on his ankle and he is cut short. Reaver is flung upon the uneven stone floor, and the light rolls scratchily as the knife falls with a loud _ping_. Watson raises himself to his knees, before he realizes the only sound is his own harsh breathing and Lestrade’s low groans.

Drawing closer to the other man, the Inspector curls in on himself, almost as if he expects to be assaulted, before he is cognizant of Watson. Clarity comes after a moment, and pushing out his arm for inspection, Lestrade looks at Reaver.

“I shouldn’t like to think he is dead, Doctor.” He says softly, and Watson begins to tear at the bottom of his shirt for strips to bind the wound. “There was, perhaps, good cause for his madness.” He confesses, almost as if he expects to be ridiculed for his compassionate thoughts.

“Nor I, Lestrade.” Watson admits, though it is more the sake of his soul than Reaver’s.

The night passes slowly, for Watson faces the mounting realization that there is no escape, even if Reaver has died. The shackles are set well, and Reaver’s body is out of reach, whether or not there is a key. The little Inspector occupies some worry also, for he is definitely concussed, has been stabbed and (knowing Lestrade’s luck) had a few ribs broken by Reaver’s kick.

Watson knows it is day only by his watch, and the delicate pressing of his fingers upon the hands. Lestrade has not stirred from his sleep, and Watson only hopes that he is actually sleeping. Reaver does not stir, and Watson hopes and it is a desperate hope that he too is only sleeping.

“We shan’t be found.” He says hollowly to himself, and the sound of his voice echoes backwards at him, lonely as a bell ringing death knolls. Lestrade, from where he is burrowed against Watson’s side, makes no answer and he regards the little man fondly. He supposes, if he should have to die in this cellar, Lestrade is as good a companion as he can ask for.

But his soul quakes, for Holmes has been much in a brown study for several days, and has not stirred from his arm chair but to make music and Watson cannot say for certain when, or if he will notice his absence at all. If there is to be a rescue, much will be forgiven, and if there is not--and his mind shudders, for such a death would a terrible one indeed.

But for Lestrade’s sake if not for his own, Watson faces the encompassing darkness with courage, and sets his jaw.

“At least, I shall not die alone, Mary.” He prays, as he settles into his sleeping friend, and with the last remnants of hope, calls into the darkness, "come quickly, Holmes.”


	2. Drawing in Hazards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are no chainsaws, and an escape occurs.

_The feeling of cool fingers on his forehead comforts the red hot poker applied to his skull, and he draws himself up, to find the sylph and lovely form of his wife Mary staring back at him. At once he knows her for a vision, for Mary had been dead for some years now._

_But as he draws nearer and takes her hand in his, he feels the smooth cool flesh and was glad of the dream for a moment._

_“I have missed you so, my darling.” He whispers in her ear, and smells the heavenly scent of her hair. She smiles gracefully and says nothing._

* * *

“Doctor?” Lestrade called worriedly, as if through a tunnel. The feeling of a hand like iron on his wrist brought him to full awareness, and he replied

“What is it, Lestrade?” Gently as he could, he felt for the other man’s solid shoulder, and the wounded arm, tracing the bandages delicately with light fingers.

“No, it isn’t that Doctor.” Lestrade said, and with his worry, his voice dropped a full octave. “Only I fear that this cellar is growing damp.” Watson shut his eyes momentarily in despair, and shifted his feet to the mute sound of the shackles clanking. Beneath his shoulder blades, he could feel the moisture trickling down the wall and his clothes felt wretchedly damp.

“I am afraid so, Lestrade.” Watson exhaled slowly, and felt with his hands in the moisture. Straining his eyes, he made out the body of John Reaver, lying as still as he had some hours ago, and with a sigh in his soul consigned himself to yet more guilt.

“I don’t suppose you carry lock picks with you?” Lestrade queried, fingering his dark hair into a pile of silky strands with a wince. “Or a file, a collar stay, or any sort of narrow, bendable metal?” He sounded more annoyed than desperate, and Watson was quite impressed with his self-control.

“Not even a knife.” Watson admitted, and then muttered darkly under his breath “Or a bone-saw.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” Watson said, feeling the other man’s shoulder grate against his ribs with a fervent energy. Lestrade’s elbow brushed his watch chain lightly, and Watson shuddered at the fevered closeness of the other man, for it reminded him of the closely packed wards in Afghanistan.

“Nothing at all? Is it Mr. Holmes who carries all the illegal implements? I shouldn’t arrest you in this circumstance, I assure you.”

“No.” Watson said glumly.

“ _Go ndéana an diabhal dréimire de cnámh do dhroma ag piocadh úll i ngairdín Ifrinn_ _!”_ Lestrade swore beside him, and then with only a slight catch of breath, continued “ _Dia ár sábháil!”_ and trailed off with only a small grinding of his teeth. Watson found his voice to be very small, and his eyes to be rather large when he said

“Was that French, Lestrade?” Watson thought privately it sounded like no French he had ever learned at school or even in the schoolyard with the other boys playing a scrum.

“No.” Lestrade said exasperatedly. “Just because I have a French surname doesn’t mean I am French.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Partly.” The inspector admitted, tensing his shoulders. “My father’s father was from France. But my mum, God rest her soul, was an Irishwoman through and through.” Watson suddenly found himself stunned, and pressed his hand to his temple.

“ _Nom de dieu!”_ Lestrade said softly beside him, almost as if to prove he could swear in French. The inspector laughed beside him, with an almost hysterical edge. “In fact, Dr. Watson, the gentleman with no kith or kin in England – I’ve no doubt more English blood than you.”

“I should hope so, Lestrade. I may be British by the grace of the Queen, but I am a Scotsman by the grace of God.”

“The Act of Union still bites at you, I suppose.” Lestrade said drily. Watson found himself shaking with mirth, and wondered if this was the effect of his head wound, or just the impossibility of the situation he now found himself in.

“Quite.” He managed to get out the word between chuckles, and felt Lestrade grasp at him, as he said

“Are you quite alright, Doctor?” He sounded entirely calm, and Watson supposed this sort of abduction was just a run of the mill for him.

“Oh yes, Lestrade, absolutely well.” By chance, Lestrade’s hand rubbed against his watch chain again through his jacket and Watson stilled.

“Lestrade.” Watson said, with a tight sort of hope in his voice, as he pulled his watch out and flipped it open. “Do you suppose…?”

“What – the hands?” Lestrade said thoughtfully, reaching out with his wounded arm, and giving a wince. “Give it to my left hand, please.” Lestrade requested, and Watson unhooked his watch and passed it over carefully.

“Isn’t this your brother’s watch, Doctor.” Lestrade’s voice echoed as he bent his face to squint at the watch’s hands. “I shouldn’t want to damage it, even if I do succeed. Which I probably shan’t.” He warned, face ashen.

“Go ahead.” Watson called wearily. “After all, what is a watch to our lives?” And good riddance, he supposed, for guilt more than memory was what he had carried with that watch.

It was a strange sort of accoutrement that Lestrade wielded as he bent over the shackles. There was a tension to the set of his shoulders that Watson could feel all the way through his hip, and he held his breath for the slight sound of metal scratching against metal.

“Damn.” Lestrade said, and Watson was relieved that he swore in English at least.

The long minutes passed as slow as their predicament could make them, and Watson thought that he should simply expire from the strain of it, when Lestrade straightened up, then swayed, little more than a white face over a stained and rumpled collar.

“Mr. Holmes shall never believe this.” He said tonelessly, and held up the pair of shackles. “Not on my life.”

“Indeed.” Watson said, and caught him under the shoulders as he fell gracelessly. They maneuvered their way towards the stairs, and Lestrade shuffled to his feet, as Watson nodded at Reaver on the way by.

“Don’t worry about him, Doctor.” Lestrade muttered, as he pushed open the trapdoor with a strong shove. “I’ll send word down to the Yard about him.”

They must have looked a strange sight, two weary and bedraggled men wandering about the narrow streets of London, and should probably have seemed no more than two tramps or a pair of drunks.

It took some doing to find a cabby that should take them, and Watson placed all of his coins into the cabbies’ hand as he placed his foot on the hansom’s step.

“ St. Bart’s.” Watson called to the cab driver, and helped Lestrade up into the hansom.

“No – I’d rather go home.” Lestrade said wearily, tucking himself into the corner with a drawn-out sigh that was more moan than anything else.

“But your arm should be seen to.” Watson responded warily, as he shut the door and they started off.

“Can be. At home, that is.” Lestrade half-slurred, eyes closed even as he sat there. “My wife’s a nurse – her father is a doctor. Saved my life once.” He confessed, head lying against the window’s frame. “More than once.” He corrected. “Job has its hazards.”

Watson had never heard Lestrade speak so openly of his private life, and was rather shocked, except for the injuries that the Inspector was even now carrying on his person.

“Very well, Lestrade.” Watson said, and directed the cabby to Lestrade’s home.

It was to the calm face of Mrs. Elen Lestrade that the door opened, and he thought he must have seemed a sight, with a beaten and bloodied Inspector draped over his arm. Rather, Mrs. Lestrade drew herself up, smoothed down her apron and ushered Watson before her protectively.

“Jack!” She called imperiously to the boy standing in the doorway, who was already almost as tall as his father. “Go for your grandfather, and tell him it is urgent.” The boy nodded his head, and ran off at once.

Watson helped Lestrade to a settee, and collapsed into an armchair himself, watching his vision turn blurry for a moment.

Seemingly only seconds later, the lad returned with an older, distinguished man in tow, who set down his bag, took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves with alacrity.

“Oh _mab_ , you’re worrying my daughter again.” He sighed, and pulled on the dressing on Lestrade’s arm, which had the Inspector hissing. With a swiftness of hand that bespoke some skill, he stitched and dressed both wound on his head and temple, and prodded at the ribs with questing fingertips.

“Not broken, I should think.” He murmured to himself, then to Lestrade “But you already knew that, no doubt. Experience, I suppose.” He patted Lestrade’s shoulder, and turned to the armchair.

“Dr. John Watson?” He inquired, and Watson found himself staring at bright cerulean eyes over a beaked nose, and a kind mouth encircled by a closely cropped white beard. “I have heard much of you, sir.”

“You are – Dr. Yates?” Watson said stiffly, wondering why he felt as though his head were wrapped in wadding.

“Yes. And if I may, I should like to have a look at your parietal bones.” His touch was light, even on the bloodied tufts of hair, and within moments he had washed the wound, declared it nothing more than a concussion, and wrapped it with clean linen to decrease the sluggish bleeding.

The speed of his actions was almost bewildering, but Watson supposed that was the concussion. He took Dr. Yates’ hand to shake, and found himself invited to supper at the Doctor’s house, as well as a round of his lectures at St. Bart’s.

It only occurred to him once he was sitting with a mug of beef tea before a warming fire, half-asleep and much contented, that all of their escape had been self-effected. The implications of this took a moment to settle, and he addressed the sitting room of the Inspector, Mrs. Lestrade, Dr. Yates and the boy Jack at large when he said helplessly, hand over his bandaged brow

“I don’t suppose anyone has wired Holmes?” To the silence that greeted him, he said quietly to himself

“It was, after all, only a spot of bother for a half Irishman and a Scotsman.” And he laughed privately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for JWP#14 - for Bastille Day challenge. Note - unbeta-ed and unedited.
> 
> Yes, there is a tense change between last chapter and this. I decided not to change how I originally wrote it and leave it as it is.

**Author's Note:**

> For JWP#13 - for Murphy's Law challenge.


End file.
